Dread Murder

by Gwendoline Butler

  ‘He did do well,’ agreed the Major.

  Mr Pickettwick had come, inconveniently – but he was not a man to know the difference – while the Major and Denny were talking over what had happened. Charlie had gone back to the Theatre.

  Or so he said, but the Major wondered. He was beginning to be puzzled by Charlie.

  Charlie and Major Mearns were rivals; or rather, that was the Major’s thinking. Charlie was not aware of it; that was not how he saw things. He certainly thought about the Major – a fine man. But he had other puzzles, other worries – like the dog and his master. Mearns said to himself: ‘There’s more to the boy than I saw before. He’s brave and clever.’

  Major Mearns did not rate himself as clever. Able to deal with situations, yes; but of the two in the team, Sergeant Denny was the clever one. The Major hadn’t thought that on first meeting Denny, but over the years he had seen the truth.

  ‘I’d like to find out who killed Traddles,’ he had declared to Denny over a glass of His Majesty’s wine.

  Mindy had taken herself off to rest. She sent a message to the Mistress of the Household, Lady Fraser, to explain she was ill. Actually, she was not, and she told the Major, but she explained she needed to rest. And after all, her hair was singed by the fire and it smelt!

  ‘So would I like to know who did for Traddles. He wouldn’t die easily,’ said Denny.

  ‘And I think the same person killed the two women.’

  Denny was silent while he thought that over, and decided that the Major was probably right. ‘I would like to find the rest of his body. Traddles deserves a proper burial.’

  ‘Plenty on the battlefield don’t get more than a cover up or left to the foxes.’

  ‘That was no battle.’

  ‘Three dead. Feels like a battle to me,’ replied the Major, authoritatively.

  ‘All by the same person? Is that what you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed the Major. ‘Let’s get who did it. I’m angry!’

  It was at this point that Mr Pickettwick arrived.

  ‘Charlie is a very brave boy. All say so!’

  ‘So you told us before.’ The Major was friendly, but quiet. He wanted to go on thinking – not gossip with Mr Pickettwick. Mr P, as Mearns and Denny called him, liked a gossip and usually had his packet to offer back.

  Mr Pickettwick looked around. ‘Is he still here with you?’

  ‘He’s gone back to the Theatre.’

  ‘Ah well, he might be needed there. The King himself intends to go.’

  The King arrived at the Theatre, dressed in the new style of black suiting, beautifully tailored and with a white shirt. He had left behind him the gaudy silks and velvets of his youth, admiring the style of Beau Brummell – which he now tried to emulate. He stroked his arm in an unconscious preening movement.

  Mr Thornton came forward as he approached. ‘Your Majesty, Sire!’ He was bowing low and walking backwards at the same time while holding two candelabra.

  ‘Yes, yes, Mr Thornton!’ snapped the King. He liked people to remember he was the King and to treat him with respect, but Mr Thornton always overdid it. ‘Pray, be careful, Mr Thornton, you will fall over again.’

  Thornton stumbled at that moment. A backward trip was difficult to control with his serious gout, and it looked for one moment as if he might grab the monarch’s arm to right himself. Just in time, Lord Eaden, the Lord-in-Waiting, stepped forward and saved him from falling.

  ‘To my box, Sir!’ announced the King, with irritation. ‘To my seat, if you please.’

  When the King was seated in the box, he patted the seat beside him. ‘Here for a moment, Mr Thornton; I want to hear about the death of Henrietta.’

  The Manager, although flattered to be asked, was also aware that the performance, halfway through, was held up with an irritated cast pacing up and down behind the curtain, while His Majesty was settled in place.

  ‘An accident, Your Majesty, a dire and tragic accident.’

  His Majesty inclined his head. A little more information was needed.

  Thornton cleared his throat. ‘There had been a bonfire of rubbish near the shed; it was thought to be out, but now we think a spark set the shed alight. No one’s fault – a terrible happening.’

  There was a regal frown. ‘But I understand the door was blocked.’

  ‘Oh — not blocked, Your Majesty, just stuck – one of those terrible accidents.’

  ‘Two accidents,’ said the sceptical King, who was no fool. ‘That’s two accidents too many.’

  The Manager muttered something about it being the way with things.

  ‘Look into it. Get that man who runs the Unit – Felix or Phoenix, or whatever his name is. He was sent to me to make his bow when he arrived. Or there’s Major Mearns – a very good man. You could ask him. Better still, ask both of them.’ His Majesty sat back ready to enjoy his evening when the curtain went up. Death was always sad and one did grieve, but there was no point in not taking one’s pleasure when it was offered.

  Then the tender heart that hid inside his Majesty’s fat frame made him remember what a lovely creature Henrietta had been. A tear squeezed out of his eye.

  ‘Get the curtain up, Mr Thornton!’ he said loudly. The King took for granted instant action. Royalty does not expect ‘No’ for an answer.

  He settled down to enjoy himself, giving no thought to Charlie, although he had certainly noticed the boy about the place (he observed a good deal, especially people).

  Charlie, meanwhile, was on his way to see Spike and Dog. He went into the house his private way: through the back window. No one had tampered with it, but he had been careful to leave it in a position where you would never know it would open and had been opened. He closed it carefully behind him.

  The room was empty – no sign of Spike and the dog. He moved quietly out into the short corridor and into the room next door, the room with the cupboard of mystery. There they were, the pair of them, tethered, tied up in rope. True that the dog had been incompetently roped and he had already got a leg out.

  ‘I can soon get you free, Dog dear,’ said Charlie, ‘and probably you as well, Spike.’ He sat back on his heels to consider. Was it wise? ‘But do you want me to?’

  The boy was silent, then shook his head. ‘Only do me up again, tighter, hurt more.’

  ‘That’s likely,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Free Dog.’

  ‘A pleasure.’ Especially as the dog had more or less done the job himself. He knelt down again, this time by the dog, talking to him gently while he undid the knots. The dog gave himself a shake, and was out of the network and free. He trotted over to lie, full length, by the boy.

  ‘Good Dog.’

  ‘I could get you out, too,’ offered Charlie again to the boy. ‘No trouble.’

  The boy shook his head. ‘No, I said just get tied up again, tighter.’

  Charlie nodded. He knew about the various ways of cruelty. Felix, he thought, excelled in them all.

  Charlie had come over to talk to his friend, but could see that now was not a good time. ‘I won’t forget you,’ Charlie promised. He held out his hand to be grasped and the two lads held hands.

  ‘Look after yourself.’ Actually, ‘don’t get killed’ was what he meant. There was too much death in Windsor at the moment.

  He went back to the Theatre. Flowers and hearts were how he thought of the dead women. Who could want them dead?

  He had expected the Theatre to be dark but, no, lights were blazing, noises and music floated out towards him, and Mr Thornton was walking up and down.

  ‘Thought you’d be dark.’

  Thornton said: ‘What His Majesty wants, His Majesty gets.’

  Charlie sniffed the air. He could still smell the fire. Thornton watched him.

  ‘Don’t worry, the fire’s out.’ He added tersely: ‘And what was left of Hetty has been taken off to Tosser’s. She was a good actress and a popular one, so there will be many at her funeral. Still, sh
e was a worry and a nuisance. Always short of money and drinking and borrowing. It doesn’t do, you know.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ Charlie, who had developed a keen eye for that sort of thing in his London life, saw that the Manager too had had more than a touch of wine.

  The Manager moved away awkwardly.

  ‘Oh, watch it, Sir. You might stumble,’ exclaimed Charlie.

  ‘You’d make a good writer,’ said Thornton, putting out a steadying hand. ‘You’ve got the tongue for it.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Sir!’

  ‘It ain’t a compliment …’

  ‘And I know it,’ said Charlie to himself. ‘But I take it as one.

  ‘If you ever had to work with writers you’d know what I mean,’ Thornton declared with meaning.

  ‘Thanks for telling me.’

  ‘The only set worse is actresses.’ By this time the Manager was hobbling off.

  ‘But, Sir! You’re married to an actress,’ Charlie called after him, knowing exactly what he was saying.

  He followed the Manager towards the back of the Theatre. ‘Like Follow the Leader,’ he thought.

  As he went towards the dressing rooms, he met Miss Fairface coming out. ‘You still here?’ she asked.

  Charlie nodded. He had nowhere else to go. ‘Curtain down? The King gone?’

  ‘He didn’t stay long because of the fire and Hetty’s death. He thought about it but he decided it wasn’t suitable. Also, I think he liked Hetty. Well, we all did – in spite of her funny little ways.’

  Charlie looked questioningly at her.

  ‘Well, we all have them, don’t we? She liked to tell a tale … Might have been what …’

  Miss Fairface went no further.

  Charlie could end the sentence for himself: ‘Might have been what killed her.’

  ‘Who knows?’ said Miss Fairface. ‘But you’re a brave boy, Charlie. If it hadn’t been for you, Mindy would have died too. But she’s got the Major to keep an eye on her. I hope she’ll be careful. Whoever killed Hetty might think Mindy knows his name too.’

  The conversation had become very grim. ‘Think of a joke; think of something funny!’ she said urgently to herself. ‘You’re upsetting the lad, he’s gone quite white!’

  Charlie did feel a little faint. He wasn’t certain who had killed Traddles and Hetty, but he thought he could guess who did know, and he thought he knew why Dol had died. Of course! Tosser knew … If he was not the killer himself. Charlie had seen Tosser’s face and seen satisfaction there.

  It was hard to like Tosser, but even harder to dislike him. There was something hard and solid inside Tosser that meant you had to respect him.

  Charlie did not use that word, but he knew the feeling.

  Two women were dead. They had the legs of another body, and a head, but the rest of the body was still missing.

  ‘Whoever killed Traddles and Hetty probably killed the other woman,’ said Charlie to himself. ‘And I want to find out who that person is.’

  He made his way to the low, stone-built building which looked as if it had once been a stable. This was where Tosser put the bodies until he was told they could be buried by the Coroner. Tosser did not welcome him, but Charlie had not expected anything better.

  ‘Tosser, those legs …’

  ‘What legs?’

  ‘You know – the legs that were found; you have them. What about the rest of the body?’

  Tosser did not answer.

  ‘I think you know where the rest of the body is.’

  Tosser did not answer but mutely accepted what Charlie said.

  ‘And you know who he is.’

  ‘Just a vagabond.’

  Charlie was not going to be dismissed so easily.

  ‘And you know where the bodies go.’

  ‘I did not bury it if that’s what you mean, boy.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you did. But you will know the best burying places in Windsor.’

  Tosser did not answer.

  Charlie waited, then said to himself, ‘I must find that body. I can do it. There are not so many places it could be hidden. Not in the Castle. And Tosser would not put them in his own back yard.’

  He must confront Tosser, but he did not look forward to it. He knew where Tosser lived, or thought he did – knew how to find it anyway.

  Twice he had followed Tosser home, going as far as he could without being noticed. He had followed a shaggy white dog that had followed Tosser. Follow the dog and he will lead you to Tosser. But as he had hesitated at the top of a short but irregular stretch of stone steps, the dog had disappeared, and so had Tosser.

  Charlie went back, deep in thought, to drink some small beer in the drinking and eating place next to the Theatre where they never questioned his age provided he had the coins in his hand.

  He plunged straight into some talking. These were not delicate people where you have to lead up to a question or be subtle. He chose the man who had served him his ale, a man who could be talkative and kind. Not clever, but willing to open his mouth, was how Charlie described him.

  ‘Just off Hythe Street, Eton Passage, is it?’ That was just the name he had seen on the wall. It did not lead to Eton.

  He got a nod.

  ‘Then you walk a bit down the passage, and it’s dark, and you come to a row of steps. Where do they go?’

  There was a moment of silence when the man he was talking to worked out where he meant.

  ‘Oh, you mean Deader’s Steps.’

  ‘Deader’s?’

  ‘Bodies, dead people. One after the other, they turn up there. Dogs and cats sometimes …’

  Charlie stared at him. ‘Why?’

  ‘Someone who lives near the steps likes to use them that way. Killed them too, I daresay. Never been copped.’

  Another man at the bar leaned across. ‘Shut up! You’re scaring the boy.’

  ‘Not him.’

  Charlie took what was left of his drink to the darkest corner of the room to think about what he had been told.

  ‘I am not brave,’ he told himself, ‘but there is a story there which I want to know.’

  When no one was looking, he slipped away. The walk to Deader’s Steps was short. He stood at the top, looking down. They smelt and they were dirty.

  Then he heard a dog howling. As he listened he heard shuffling footsteps, stumbling up the steps.

  Tosser stood in front of him, his throat cut from ear to ear with blood streaming down and flesh and vessels hanging out. He stared at Charlie, seeing nothing, then he fell forward on his face.

  Chapter Nine

  Mr Pickettwick often said he did not like dogs. Or was it that they did not like him? No, this could not be; dogs liked him because they always sniffed round the edge of his trousers while making little growling sounds.

  If anyone didn’t like him, it was that tyke Charlie.

  Mr Pickettwick found his throat and mouth exceedingly dry; he was thirsty. It did not take long for him to decide to turn into Ralli’s, the drinking and eating place – new to Windsor, but very popular because you could buy coffee and a simple meal at any time of the day or night.

  Ralli – he liked to be called Mr Ralli as part of becoming English – had been swept up in the train of Napoleon’s armies and deposited near Windsor, where he saw the possibilities at once. There was no quarrel between him and Bert Frost who ran the pub a few yards away because both knew that the pub customers would never use Ralli’s, and the other way round. It was people from the Castle and rich visitors like Mr Pickettwick who would come to eat and drink at Ralli’s.

  He bowed when he saw Mr Pickettwick come in. He foresaw profit from Mr Pickettwick.

  Or trouble.

  One must always be prepared for everything.

  Two women and two men all dead. Traddles beheaded, Dol Worboys strangled, Henrietta burnt and Tosser with his throat cut. And then there was the dead baby, too, that the Major had found with the dog’s body.

  Charli
e made the list out in his mind; they were linked, he was sure. For the moment his interest wasn’t in who had killed them but in the dead themselves – they should be written about. No need to be too gloomy about it either – not even with the legs.

  He had to admit that he could think of one or two good jokes about what those legs could do on their own. Or had already done.

  He had lived in the rough part of London, dumped in it by his parents. His mother had been especially keen: ‘It’s a good thing for you, Charlie; you can earn …’ With those words she had put a wall between them which he would never knock down.

  Yet despite this memory, Charlie had to go back to London; he knew that. It was his place, but he would always be glad he had come to Windsor.

  He would be in trouble when he got back to his family; he knew that too. But he would insist on what was right. His rights.

  He knew that inside him there was a life bubbling up. He wanted to learn how to develop that energy. It would mean the use of words, because he already enjoyed using them. But he must learn to use them in an educated way.

  ‘The King is mighty fond of women!’ Charlie’s thoughts were digressing to some words used by Major Mearns. And the monarch was fond of clothes too. Half asleep as he had been that morning, His Majesty had been dressed in blue, red and gold. A kind of gaudy uniform.

  Charlie liked clothes, too, but he felt his tastes would run in a quieter way.

  In spite of his diversion to matters Royal and what the King liked, Charlie could not stop thinking about the dead souls.

  ‘Cheer up, Charlie,’ said Miss Fairface.

  ‘I’m thinking about the dead man.’

  ‘I know.’ He might be sad for Traddles, she thought, but he is also very curious. ‘And not just a man, Charlie. Two women have died as well, and one was Henrietta.’

  ‘Yes, I hadn’t forgotten Henrietta,’ Charlie said soberly.

  ‘I’m thirsty. I could do with a drink.’

  ‘Mr Thornton always has something in his room. He’d let you have a drink. I could go and get it.’

  ‘No, Charlie, although it’s kind of you. I couldn’t drink strong stuff like that – not when I’m working. Mr Thornton wants to put on some sort of performance.’